


Luck of the Draw

by Bookwormgal



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Canon - TV, Demons, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Metaphorical Poker Game, Near Death Experiences, Other, Post-Canon, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Queerplatonic Relationships, Self-Sacrifice, Serious Injuries, Temporary Character Death, smiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:40:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24956233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bookwormgal/pseuds/Bookwormgal
Summary: Sometimes concepts are too big, too complicated, and too ineffable to properly describe or understand. Sometimes it is easier to imagine things as metaphors. And metaphorically speaking, reality could be viewed as an obscure and complex version of poker played in a pitch-black room, with blank cards, for infinite stakes, with a Dealer who won’t tell you the rules and who smiles all the time.Of course, reality can also be viewed as two powerful angels going down to Earth with the goal of wiping the "traitor" out of existence the old-fashioned way. If more precise methods don't work, then simply smite away at the target until there's nothing left.(Inspired by a lovely piece ofartworkby WhiteleyFoster.)
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 40
Kudos: 219
Collections: Aspec-friendly Good Omens





	Luck of the Draw

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WhiteleyFoster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteleyFoster/gifts).



> This fic was inspired by a lovely piece of [artwork](https://whiteleyfoster.tumblr.com/post/621169148114911232/nobody-hurts-aziraphale-if-crowley-has-anything-to) by WhiteleyFoster. When I saw it, I couldn’t help being inspired to write a fic to go with the picture. I will admit that it quickly went off the rails a bit when I tried to flesh things out. After all, I couldn’t just write that one scene from the picture. I had to show how they ended up in that situation and what happened afterwards. And somehow that ended up drawing further inspiration from the poker game metaphor from canon. So… hope you enjoy!

Uncertainty was not welcome in Heaven. Not among the angels. Uncertainty was too similar to doubt. And doubt had long since proven to be a dangerous thing for any of them to develop. General doubt could easily lead to doubting _Her_. Doubting and questioning Her was a slippery slope that inevitably led to an inescapable Fall. No angel wanted to admit to being uncertain about their actions or decisions. They would never appear as anything less than confident and sure of themselves. They were meant to follow the Great Plan and they couldn’t afford to be uncertain about their interpretation of it.

Heaven could not afford to have anything that caused uncertainty. No murky greys or ambiguity. Nothing that would make an angel hesitate, wonder, or doubt their role or instructions.

But when the apocalypse failed to happen, there were uncertain whispers among the angels. There were questions. And the only reason why there was no wide-spread doubt among them was because Heaven did not react the same way that Hell did. Unlike Hell where the demons made a public spectacle of the attempted execution of their traitor, only a few Archangels knew who was involved in the disruption to Armageddon and what happened when they tried to destroy him. Most of Heaven remained ignorant.

A small blessing. There would have been panic, confusion, and questioning if the others knew the truth. That an angel attempted to halt the apocalypse alongside a demon, disobeyed orders, and questioned the validity of the Great Plan. That an angel could do all that and not Fall. He did not Fall and he did not burn in hellfire. If the news spread of such a horrifying and impossible thing, pure chaos would reign. Countless angels would rebel and Fall. Gabriel and the others knew that no one could know what happened.

But Aziraphale’s continued existence remained a threat. As long as he lived, there remained a chance that the truth would come to light. Any angel who learned what the traitor had done and that he’d neither Fallen nor burned would be plagued by confusion, uncertainty, and doubt. That threat would never lessen. It would hang over all of them as long as Aziraphale continued to survive. His very presence on Earth threatened every angel in Heaven. And that threat needed to be removed. For the greater good.

Gabriel knew that the hellfire had no effect on Aziraphale for some reason. But while hellfire was the most effective way to destroy an angel just as holy water was the most reliable method to wipe out a demon, it wasn’t the _only_ method of destruction. The first War didn’t rely on such tactics, after all. Anything that could damage a true form sufficiently could be fatal. It was just difficult and not as reliable.

If a neat and organized form of execution wouldn’t work, then they may need to employ more aggressive ideas. A hammer rather than a scalpel. Regardless of the method, they needed to remove the threat that Aziraphale’s existence continued to pose.

He considered recruiting Michael to assist with the operation. She was calculating, efficient, and dangerous. A warrior and not easy to unnerve. But Gabriel eventually decided that Sandalphon would be a better option. He didn’t need a warrior. Aziraphale was soft and anxious, not aggressive or combative. Even his trick with the hellfire didn’t change his fundamental nature. They didn’t need a warrior to fight him. They needed someone ruthless, brutal, and experienced with executions. Though Gabriel would hesitate to phrase it as such, they required a bully, not a warrior. And Gabriel certainly remembered how well Sodom and Gomorrah was handled. Sandalphon always had a knack for smiting.

Smiting wasn’t a guaranteed method of execution. It was merely another tool at an angel’s disposal. Smiting tended to be lethal for humans, but attempting it on someone occult or ethereal tended to vary a bit more. Depending on the celestial power involved and the strength of the target, it could gravely wound, discorporate, or utterly destroy someone.

And Sandalphon had always been able to put a great deal of power behind his smiting attempts. He didn’t have the speed, endurance, or maneuverability that Michael did, but he could call down divine wrath better than many angels. It made him more effective when it came to intimidation, brutal assaults, and executions rather than a drawn-out battle.

And Aziraphale… The soft, foolish, and anxious Aziraphale… The same Aziraphale who would march into hellfire with a simple order… A bully was all that they needed to handle someone like Aziraphale. Regardless of the strange immunities that he might have developed, Gabriel was certain that they could still destroy Aziraphale in the right circumstances with minimal danger.

* * *

Sometimes concepts are too big, too complicated, and too ineffable to properly describe or understand. Sometimes it is easier to imagine things as metaphors. And metaphorically speaking, reality could be viewed as an obscure and complex version of poker played in a pitch-black room, with blank cards, for infinite stakes, with a Dealer who won’t tell you the rules and who _smiles all the time_.

In this poker game metaphor, the Dealer would deal out the cards to the players. She is the one who decides who gets which cards to start with and who hands out later cards as things progress. The players, however, could choose how to use those cards. They could decide when to call, when to fold, when to raise, and when to go all in on a long shot that was equally likely to help them as it was to harm them.

But since it has already been established that this is not a traditional poker game, they are not limited to the traditional version of the rules or actions. They can play out of turn. They can steal cards from other players or trade with them or even hand over their own cards to someone else. And of course, they can make mistakes. None of the players truly understand the game. With their blank cards and rules that are impossible to completely understand, how can they devise a proper strategy in that dark room?

At this point, someone might ask about the participants of the metaphorical poker game. If She was the Dealer, then who was playing the complicated game of Her own devising? The answer is everyone. Every soul in Heaven, Hell, or on Earth participate in the game to the best of their abilities. New players would arrive at the table while others would eventually leave, escorted away from the table when they were unable to continue in that particular form of existence. But the game continued. From the very beginning of everything until the end of the universe, the game would continue.

Not all players were equally good at the game. Angels and demons tended to follow the same patterns, playing the same hands with minimal variations. What few rules they understood or believed that they understood, they followed closely. Humans tended to come up with more creative ideas and take more interesting risks with their hands. And they were better at bluffing.

The metaphorical poker game never truly ended. Occasionally it simply moved to another round. And as Gabriel made his decision to proceed, She began dealing out the next hand of the game.

* * *

Neither of them saw it coming.

Why would they? They’d intimidated the forces of Heaven and Hell with their bluff and hadn’t seen any other angels or demon since the failed trials. As far as either of them could tell, their former sides were keeping their distance and leaving the pair alone. Just as Aziraphale and Crowley had hoped. Both sides were essentially ignoring them and clearly trying to sweep the entire mess under the rug.

He couldn’t even properly describe the relief that he felt when it started to sink in that _yes_ , the plan was actually _working_ and no one was watching them anymore. It felt like an impossible weight had lifted from the angel’s shoulders. Thousands of years of stress, tension, and anxiety had slowly melted away, unwrapping the vise-grip pressure around his chest that had been there for ages. Aziraphale couldn’t even remember a time that he didn’t feel that nervous energy buzzing under his skin and crushing him. The fear, guilt, and anxiety had been with him for as long as he could remember, though he did his best not to acknowledge it.

Angels didn’t technically have to breathe, so the action didn’t have the inherent feeling of relief and need to it. But he could finally understand how humans felt when they could finally get a gasp of air after nearly drowning.

They didn’t need to hide anymore. They didn’t need to be afraid of Heaven or Hell finding out about any of it. The Arrangement, the reports that weren’t quite accurate, their flaws, their friendship, or any of it. They were free. The idea felt incredibly overwhelming. And some days, a bit terrifying. He’d experienced a few panic attacks in the months since Nope-mageddon. It was almost too much for him to accept some days. But Aziraphale wouldn’t change it. He wouldn’t give up having their own side together.

In some ways, he and Crowley did the same things as before. Walks in the park, trips to the theater, expensive dinners, and long nights curled up in the bookshop while drinking and talking together. But now they didn’t need to make excuses to meet up or to spend time together. They could do it simply because that’s what they _wanted_. There was no secrecy, no hesitation or second-guessing, and no fear of discovering hanging over them. The threat was gone. They could be open, honest, and _happy_.

They’d gone for a week out of the city. Driving out in the countryside. Renting a cottage. Having a picnic. Doing all the calm, relaxing, and longer activities that they could never try before. Because they couldn’t come up with an excuse to try them together. It had been too risky. But now they were free to have a holiday together, doing everything and anything that they wanted.

Aziraphale enjoyed every moment that they spent together and he kept glimpsing the smile on Crowley’s face. The small, soft, and open one that was rarer than the others. At least before Armaged-Don’t. That particular smile was becoming more common in the days since.

Their leisurely trip led them to a small and picturesque village. Not as unnaturally perfect as Tadfield, but beautiful. The place was meant to appeal to people on holiday, maintaining the older style buildings with thatched roofs, the cobblestone roads, and a refusal to update the surroundings into anything more modern in appearance. It was meant to let people feel like they’d stepped back in time and left all their troubles back home. Somewhere that moved at a slower and more relaxed pace than the outside world. There was a quaint bed-and-breakfast, a couple family restaurants, a used bookshop next door to an antique store, and a rather nice community garden that Crowley spent a surprising amount of time in as he stalked among the blossoms.

Mostly, they found themselves wandering along the cobblestone streets, taking things slow and relaxed. Enjoying the sights and basking in each other’s company. Aziraphale held his hand, fingers intertwined. Crowley felt warm in his grip. And that warmth seemed to spread throughout the angel. Rather like he was wrapped in a fuzzy blanket with a mug of cocoa. Holding his hand and walking beside Crowley rather than having clandestine meetings on buses and at the bandstand felt right. He couldn’t bury the bubbly feeling that Crowley’s close proximity caused. And he didn’t want to.

There were no words to describe what Crowley meant to him. None of his books could properly describe their relationship. Nothing seemed to completely encompass what the demon was to him. Dearest companion. Best friend.

…Soulmate?

He smiled at the demon before tugging Crowley over to the window of the antique shop. Aziraphale could swear that the glimpse of silver might be a Victorian snuffbox. Perfect for his collection. And if his action caused Crowley to grin indulgently at him, all the better. He was fully prepared to drag the demon inside for a little further browsing; purchasing the possible snuffbox and looking through the rest of the shop for other buried treasures. And Aziraphale knew that Crowley would roll his eyes, but he would also smile at him the entire time.

Neither of them saw it coming.

The closest thing to a warning that they received was the feeling of _otherness_ that washed over Aziraphale like a cold wave to announce the arrival of something _not human_ and Crowley stiffening beside him as he sensed the same thing. Then a bolt of divine power flared up directly behind them, dangerously intense and strong.

Crowley _slammed_ into the wall, crumbling to the ground like a rag doll. Aziraphale shouted his name before dropping beside him. Reaching with more angelic senses, relief washed over him as he confirmed that Crowley wasn’t badly hurt. Unconscious and the bottom edge of his jacket still sizzling from where it had been scorched, but in no immediate danger of discorporating or ceasing to exist.

Not an attempt to destroy him then. Smiting a demon with a concentrated strike of divine wrath and fury could do far worse that knock him out cold. Stronger smiting attempts tended to tear and burn away more at the metaphysical than the physical. But they didn’t care enough about that. They just wanted to get Crowley out of the way.

Eyes closed tight as he took a shaky breath, Aziraphale squeezed Crowley’s hand. He wished that he could spare a moment to heal the possible concussion, but he knew that he needed to save his strength. Then he reluctantly let go, stood up slowly, and turned to face the ones responsible.

Somehow, he wasn’t surprised that Sandalphon was present. He was always good at smiting. He had a talent for it and a tendency to smite quite a bit harder than strictly necessary. Even before Aziraphale could fully admit to himself the idea that angels could truly be bad and uncaring about the world and humanity, he’d felt uncomfortable in Sandalphon’s presence. There was a vicious edge to him. Like it wouldn’t take much for him to take the leap from brutish angel to demon. He had power and he liked using that power against those who were weaker than him. Only the fact that he chose the approved targets allowed him to remain in Heaven.

Gabriel’s presence was both more and less expected. Aziraphale used to directly answer to him and he was one of the few angels who apparently directly supervised the attempted executions. It made sense for him to be present for whatever was happening. He would want to see things finished properly. On the other hand, he was the Messenger. He specialized in bureaucracy. Gabriel wasn’t one to get his hands dirty or fight. Michael would have been the one commanding the forces of Heaven during the War; Gabriel would merely organize everything for Heaven ahead of time. He wasn’t the type to sneak attack someone.

Though the Apoca-Oops had taught Aziraphale that he didn’t know his fellow angels as well as he’d thought.

“I was under the impression that we all agreed that it would be better for everyone if Heaven and Hell left us alone,” said Aziraphale, trying to keep his voice steady and calm. “This doesn’t feel like leaving us alone.”

Smiling in a bright and empty way, Gabriel said, “We did consider that option after the unexpected result of our last meeting. But with all the reorganizing and restructuring that we’ve needed to perform while we clarify the intentions of the Ineffable Plan before moving forward, it seemed best to work from a clean slate. Removing any past complications from the equation, you might say.” Folding his hands in front of him, his posture still perfectly straight, he said, “And I am afraid that you have proven to be a complication. One that could threaten group cohesion and loyalty within Heaven. I’m certain that you don’t want that, Aziraphale.”

“No,” said Sandalphon, his grin more predatory and dangerous. “You wouldn’t want that.”

He held one hand in front of his chest, opening and closing his fist. Sandalphon practically crackled with celestial energy, ready to summon another strike of divine fury. It wasn’t quite fire and it wasn’t quite lightning, but the bright, intense, and overwhelming form of energy somehow faintly resembled both. There was nothing else quite like it. While celestial energy was naturally more hazardous to demons, the forces involved could be dangerous even if turned against another angel. Especially if someone used enough of it. And Sandalphon could theoretically wield enough to discorporate an angel of a lower rank. Or worse.

Wiping out a couple of cities in their entirety and turning at least one person into a pillar of salt were both acts that belonged on Sandalphon’s resumé. But it wasn’t his normal everyday power level. Drawing down that much energy for a mass smiting was something that needed Heaven’s approval ahead of time and wasn’t something that the other angels would miss. And since the first attempted executions were apparently private according to Crowley, Aziraphale doubted that Sandalphon was planning anything that massive. They wanted this relatively quiet.

But Sandalphon didn’t need that extra level of strength. His normal terrifying capability to wield celestial energy in the form of a destructive bolt of divine wrath was more than enough to wipe out the average principality if he put his mind to it.

Aziraphale’s eyes twitched towards the confused and mildly panicking humans who were starting to crowd the area, staring at the downed Crowley and Sandalphon holding up a hand flickering with celestial energy. A few of the humans were showing worry and concern, but most were trying to devise a rational explanation for what they were seeing. Humans had a knack for ignoring the impossible when it proved inconvenient for them, but there were limits.

Gabriel and Sandalphon weren’t trying to keep a low profile. That realization sent a chill down Aziraphale’s spine. They didn’t care if the humans saw. They didn’t care how the humans would react and quite likely wouldn’t care if they were caught in the crossfire. They might even intend to remove the humans from the equation afterwards to prevent further complications.

Collateral damage. That’s all the humans were. Innocent humans who were merely in the wrong place when they decided to come after Aziraphale. Humans dying for no reason except the whims of a couple angels.

He couldn’t allow that to happen.

Straightening his coat, Aziraphale took a few casual steps. He tried to behave how he would imagine Crowley would in his place. As if he didn’t care even slightly about them or their threats. And if his movements forced the other angels to turn a little to follow him and moved Crowley out of the line of fire, Gabriel and Sandalphon wouldn’t notice or care.

Subtly brushing a gentle miracle across the minds of the closest humans, blurring the memories of the last few minutes while giving them a strong urge to go somewhere else _now_ , Aziraphale said, “I walked into fire once at your orders. This time, if you wish for my destruction, I won’t make it that easy for you. You’ll have to put in the effort and take the risks yourself. You’ll have to do the dirty work for once and accept that you are going against everything that Heaven is meant to be.”

“Aziraphale, you know better than that,” said Gabriel coldly. “Angels and Heaven do what is right by definition. We don’t _do_ dirty work, as you put it. I’m here to deliver a message. And Sandalphon,” he said, gesturing towards the angel dressed in a brown suit, “is here to _deliver a message_.”

Sandalphon’s hand thrust forward and Aziraphale dove out of the way barely in time. Light flared, an explosive burst, and the smell of ozone and burning hit at the same instant that the terrified screams began. Out of time. The people were still too close. Even as Aziraphale rolled back to his feet, he started desperately sending humans away. He couldn’t aim with that method of transportation. He could only send them somewhere _away_ and hope. But the humans would have a better chance of survival anywhere that angels weren’t calling down bolts of divine fury.

Unfortunately, protecting the people was a distraction. One that Aziraphale couldn’t afford. And such distractions could be deadly.

* * *

Cards were laid down and chips moved. But as fast as he moved, other players stole away his hand. They wanted him out of the game. And as he focused on assisting others, he could not defend himself properly.

Stakes were raised and he couldn’t possibly win the round with his current hand. But he was not playing the metaphorical poker game alone.

* * *

 _Ow_ …

Holy and demonic didn’t mix well. Even a low-level smiting hurt. The angel responsible might have focused on the corporeal, but they couldn’t help damaging the true form to a certain extent. But it could have been worse. Even as he swam back towards consciousness, Crowley knew it could have been worse.

They didn’t discorporate him. Even if his body and true form both ached. Even if his joints felt like gravels grinding against each other, his ears rang, and all his nerves buzzed and stung. All of those minor issues just proved that he was alive and in one piece. He was lucky. Smitings tended to be a lot more destructive to the target.

But it wasn’t fun.

Not yet willing to risk opening his eyes yet or moving, Crowley took silent stock of the situation. He was alive. He still had his body intact and he hadn’t been tossed back to Hell. And—

A flare of holy power and light erupted somewhere very close, startling the demon into flinching.

 _Ow, ow, ow_ …

Nope, definitely don’t want to draw anyone attention. Play dead and figure out what’s going on first. Then consider sneaking away from the area. Someone was still smiting and he didn’t want them to target him again. A second hit like the first might actually discorporate him.

Since he refused to risk opening his eyes and revealing that he was awake, he was left with his other senses. The scents of ozone, smoke, holiness, and angels hung heavily in the air and coated his tongue. Several fires crackled, snapped, and roared somewhere nearby. He could feel the heat pressing against him. And when he reached out and concentrated, Crowley sensed three angels. Two powerful ones, which probably included whoever blindsided him earlier with the surprise smiting. And one familiar angel that he’d recognize even half-dazed and hurt.

Aziraphale.

He risked prying his eyes open, too tired and sore to bother disguising their serpentine nature. His sunglasses were currently missing in action.

The village was burning. Patches of fire on the buildings and even the cobblestone. The faintest hints of their holy source lingered, fueling the flames. The buildings might be a lost cause. But there was no scent of blood or burning flesh. The humans were missing from the destruction.

Leave it to his angel to focus more on getting the humans out of the path of danger than making a run for it.

Crowley raised his head slightly, trying to spot Aziraphale without drawing attention. If the angels who smote him had forgotten that the demon was alive and still lurking around, that meant he wasn’t their main target. He needed to find Aziraphale and get him out of there.

He spotted Gabriel and Sandalphon first. They were directly in front of him, though they were thankfully more concerned with something to the left instead of looking towards Crowley. The pair were staring down at something on the cobblestone with identical expressions of distaste and disappointment. And it took all of Crowley’s self-control to keep silent and still when he recognized what it was.

Aziraphale was crumbled on the ground. Lying limply on his stomach, his face buried in his arm, soot streaking his face and his favorite coat, and he was either unconscious or approaching it.

They _hurt_ him.

Something twisted in his chest sharply at the sight of his sprawled and helpless angel, completely at the nonexistent mercy of those two. Powerful angels wearing masks of civility, but often just as cruel as demons.

Nobody hurt Aziraphale if Crowley had anything to say about it. Especially not a pair of pompous Archangels.

Was Sandalphon an Archangel or just someone who hung around with them? He couldn’t remember his rank at the moment. As soon as the question formed, Crowley shoved it away. Now was not the time for that. His angel was hurt and it was those two’s fault.

Unfortunately, he knew that he wasn’t strong enough to take them both on. Not without a good plan set up ahead of time and certainly not right after being smote into unconsciousness. That’s something that takes time to shrug off. Crowley knew better than to draw attention to himself yet, but he needed to do _something_. Aziraphale needed help. He was in danger. Everything in the demon snarled viciously at the scene and the feeling of helplessness.

“It is nice to know that your immunity to hellfire didn’t make you invulnerable to everything,” said Sandalphon. “I almost expected a challenge. Don’t know why. You’re still the same angel, regardless of what else might have changed.”

Sure, he was brave _now_. But Crowley remembered their reaction when the attempted executions went off the rails.

Arms held stiff at his sides and with an expression of distaste for the whole situation, Gabriel said, “Finish this quickly. We can’t afford to let him discorporate. Him arriving in Heaven would risk raising the same questions that we are trying to avoid. We need him gone. We need him to completely disappear, as if he never existed.”

“I should be able to handle that.”

This time, Crowley could feel it. The angel was gathering power. A lot of it. Far more than he used for that sneak attack on the demon. Crowley could feel it prickling almost like static electricity in the air. Except the energy had a slight bite of holiness that static never did, leaving him gritting his teeth.

They were going to destroy Aziraphale. Sandalphon was gathering enough strength to destroy his angel. Not discorporate. Completely and utterly dead. And every part of Crowley screamed out against it.

Not Aziraphale. Not his angel.

He wouldn’t allow it. Crowley could feel and see the blinding light directed towards Aziraphale, but he refused. No, no, no—

 _Stop_.

Stopping time wasn’t an easy trick. Possible for him on a good day, but today wasn’t a good one. Everything still ached from the earlier smiting. But for his angel, he would manage.

Not long. He could only hold back the steady march of time briefly. A handful of nonexistent seconds. Not long enough to get Aziraphale out of the path of danger.

But long enough for him to do _something_.

He didn’t hesitate. He couldn’t afford to anyway. And it wasn’t really much of a choice in the end. He’d already made the decision thousands of years ago on the walls of Eden, when he inadvertently handed over his heart to an angel.

Crowley used his precious paused time to fling himself over his angel’s limp figure. Covering Aziraphale with his own body. The frantic motion placed himself between Aziraphale and the divine bolt, frozen above them mid-strike. The celestial power ready to smite the target from existence. Crowley managed to glare at Sandalphon and Gabriel during his protective dive, the pair of pompous twits. They were frozen in time and wouldn’t notice, but the gesture was worth it.

Then, still shielding his angel the only way that he could, Crowley lost his grip on time. His handful of nonexistent seconds were gone. Time resumed with all the grace of a train crash and—

—blinding light, deafening blast, agony, and then nothing.

* * *

Chips shoved into the center. Just enough to match the previous stakes. He laid down a single card while passing the rest of his hand and his chips to the player next to him. Betting everything on a weak hand just to give another player a better chance to continue playing in the metaphorical poker game.

But it left him holding nothing. He’d sacrificed everything that he had in that one act. With no cards and nothing left to wager, he couldn’t keep playing.

The game would continue. Someone was already waiting to escort him away from the table.

* * *

A sudden weight on his back and a blinding flash of holy energy that somehow _didn’t_ tear through his true form. The unexpectedness of the two events managed to anchor Aziraphale to consciousness. Despite the pain of the previous strikes of celestial energy doing its best to drag him down, he was clinging to awareness. He remained barely awake and unmoving. He knew that Sandalphon’s most recent smiting should have shredded him and yet he didn’t feel a thing.

What happened? What stopped it? What was lying sprawled on top of him?

He needed to find out. No matter how much it hurt, he needed to stay awake and find out.

“When did the demon wake up?” asked Gabriel.

“I don’t suppose it matters _now_.” His tone unconcerned as footsteps brought the angel closer to Aziraphale, Sandalphon said, “You know what they say about killing two birds with a single stone. Or perhaps it should be two traitors with a single smiting?”

As Gabriel laughed over the rather weak joke, Aziraphale tried to figure out what they meant. Because what he thought that they were saying couldn’t be true. He refused to believe it. His mind rebelled against the idea.

“Make certain that the matter is dealt with. We need to be thorough,” said Gabriel after a couple moments. “We can’t risk him surviving somehow.”

Aziraphale felt someone rolling the weight off his back. The mystery object tumbled roughly to the ground next to him.

No. Not just some unknown weight. All the pieces fell into place, regardless of how much he didn’t want to consider them. Aziraphale _knew_.

Crowley.

The weight on his back had been Crowley. It was him. He shielded Aziraphale. Crowley shielded him from Sandalphon’s final attempt to smite him. Crowley protected him like always.

Sandalphon smote Crowley instead. A powerful bolt of divine wrath. One meant to destroy an angel.

But Crowley was a demon. And demons were more vulnerable to anything holy.

He was a demon. And Sandalphon was using enough power to smite an angel.

Shock, horror, and anger churned inside Aziraphale. Strong enough to shove away the pain. How could they? How _dare_ they. How dare they hurt Crowley? Collateral damage, just as the innocent humans would have been. And that anger and rage over the injustice only burned brighter.

And when he felt a hand grip his shoulder to roll him over, that rage solidified into something sharp-edged and incandescent. He was a still a principality. He refused to fight a pointless war, but Aziraphale was made to defend. To protect. They hurt someone under his protection, someone that he cared about. And they were not the only ones who knew how to smite the wicked and cruel targets of his anger.

Sandalphon wasn’t prepared for Aziraphale to move, suddenly revealing that he was conscious. He was even less prepared for a hand to grab his forehead and send a sudden bolt of celestial energy straight to his face. The forced knocked the angel flying back, his skull slamming against the cobblestone hard enough to crack something vital. Specifically, his neck. Sandalphon discorporated before he even realized what was happening. Aziraphale wasn’t holding back.

As much as Aziraphale wanted to look towards the limp demonic figure next to him as he stood up, he turned to glare at Gabriel. The Archangel appeared unsettled and unnerved by what he’d just witnessed. As if he couldn’t conceive the idea of the soft principality fighting back. Aziraphale rather suspected that he was glowing with all the holy energy that he was summoning. He wasn’t stronger than Gabriel, but he was angrier at the moment. And now Aziraphale wasn’t distracted trying to miracle humans out of the line of fire. The sole target of his focus was the Archangel who shattered their peace and happiness.

There were certain things that everyone should fear. Humans, demons, and angels. And one such thing was the anger of a gentle soul.

“Now, Aziraphale,” he said, holding up his hands in a placating manner, “let’s not be too hasty. I’m sure we can be reasonable about all of this.”

Staring Gabriel down, he said, “You have tried to destroy me twice now. There is a limit to how reasonable that I can be, and I am out of patience with you.” Aziraphale barely recognized his own voice. “We both know that I am no longer welcome in Heaven and I have no interest in returning. You had no _reason_ to do this.” The rage threatened to turn to hurt, but Aziraphale forced himself to focus. “It would be safer for you to return where you belong and leave us alone. You can go back on your own or I can send you the same way that I did Sandalphon.”

Instinct guided his actions. There was an enemy before him. And he knew how to respond. Aziraphale drew his flaming sword, shifting into a battle stance without thought. He might be a soft and careful angel, but he knew how to fight and Gabriel was his enemy in that moment. He reacted according to those ancient buried instincts.

A small and yet vital fact seemed to escape his notice though. Specifically, the fact that Aziraphale gave his sword away already. There was no metal weapon at his side for him to grip and draw forth. But in that moment, responding instinctively to the situation, Aziraphale fully Expected there to be a sword in his hand. Denial, fury, and stubbornness burned in him and holy flames fueled by that rage and those Expectations formed along his imaginary blade. And the fire was real and vicious.

Not a flaming sword then. A sword of flames.

Aziraphale stood defensively over the silent figure at his feet as he stared Gabriel down.

“I survived hellfire,” said Aziraphale coldly. “Do you want to push me and see what I am capable of when I stop being nice?”

For a moment, nothing moved and the only sound was the crackling of flames. Gabriel kept glancing between the principality and the fire licking along the length of the phantom sword. Then, the Archangel apparently coming to a decision, an explosive crash of lightning flashed and both Gabriel and Sandalphon’s lifeless body vanished. Retreating to the safety of Heaven.

Aziraphale glared for a moment longer. Then he let go. Of the imaginary sword with real flames. And of the excessive power that he’d yanked down from Heaven. He slumped as he let it all go. And his pain and weariness rolled back in. Aziraphale dropped back to his knees as his gaze fell.

“Crowley,” he whispered.

He reached over and gathered the still figure, pulling the demon into his lap. Thin branching burn patterns on his skin poked out of the edges of Crowley’s scorched sleeve and up his neck. Lichtenberg figures, Aziraphale’s mind quietly provided. The same burn patterns that humans could get from being struck by lightning.

His head lolled limply as the angel pulled him further into his arms. Crowley’s sunglasses were gone and his eyes were only half-lidded. Aziraphale could see the familiar golden-yellow shade. The one that Crowley spent so long hiding, either pulling the color back until it was only the irises or covering with dark glasses. While humans might be uncomfortable, Aziraphale never minded the serpentine features and actually rather liked them. But while they were still vertical slits, his pupils were open too wide. The only reason why they should be dilated to that extent was if they were somewhere far darker. That or…

Well, Aziraphale had been on Earth for six thousand years. He’d seen that empty blankness and the way the pupils opened up completely before. He knew that’s what human eyes did when the person died.

“No,” he whispered. “No, no, no…”

Shaking fingers slid down the demon’s slack face, drawing the eyes closed. Then Aziraphale pulled him closer, cradling him against his chest. He reached with his angelic senses. It would be horrible if Crowley discorporated. He knew that. Crowley would be stuck down in Hell without a physical form. But if Crowley discorporated, there was still hope. The other demons were still scared of Crowley. The stunt with the bathtub full of holy water assured that. And Aziraphale could storm into Hell to get him. He could do that. And he would. Without hesitation. As long as Aziraphale could sense any hint that it was only discorporation, then hope remained. He just needed—

Aziraphale choked on the start of a sob. There was a feeling of desolation as he reached out. Empty, silent, and barren. Like a vast desert stretching before his senses.

No, not a desert. Deserts seemed empty, but were actually teeming with life if you looked hard enough. Full of creatures and plants well-suited for the harsh environment.

This was different. It was more like the aftermath of an intense and devastating forest fire. One that swept across the landscape and spared nothing in its wake. Everything was scorched away. And whatever burnt fragments that he found were lifeless and crumbling to ash.

This wasn’t discorporation. There would be an emptiness, but one that didn’t share the feeling of ruin. And a faint feeling of sulfur lingered to his senses when the demon’s true form was pulled down to Hell. But that wasn’t what Aziraphale found. This wasn’t discorporation, but something more final.

Destroyed. Utterly destroyed. Burned and scorched away by the bolt of divine fury until nothing remained. Smote out of existence.

Gone.

“Please, no,” he sobbed, shifting his grip on the demon as Crowley’s head lolled against the angel’s shoulder. “Please don’t go.”

Aziraphale couldn’t stop the tears rolling down his face as he held the limp weight in his arms. Nor could he escape the choking misery squeezing his chest. It _hurt_. Not just the pain from Sandalphon attacking earlier, but the heartache that tore a ragged hole right through him.

He wasn’t supposed to sacrifice himself. Not to protect Aziraphale. Crowley wasn’t supposed to die for the angel’s sake. Aziraphale wasn’t worth it. None of this was worth it. Why save him if it meant leaving Aziraphale alone in the end?

Their side. They were supposed to be on their own side. _Together_. They were supposed to be together. That’s what it meant. Crowley wasn’t supposed to leave him alone.

* * *

He slowly became aware that he was sitting in the dark with absolutely no idea how he got there. And other than his own name and the fact that he was a demon, he remembered absolutely nothing. It was a complete blank.

That should have bothered him more. The lack of any memory or knowledge should have been more disturbing, but Crowley felt surprisingly calm. Calm and accepting.

And while the room was pitch-black, it turned out that demons could see in the dark. Not perfectly, but at least enough to make out a few things. A rather handy trick.

He was sitting at a table. It didn’t immediately seem large, but he couldn’t seem to actually tell how big it was. And there were other people sitting around the table. Crowley couldn’t see who they were or how many. All the details were hidden by the darkness or perhaps his mind refusing to settle on an answer. Were there two people? Three? A thousand? More? The table seemed small, but there also seemed to be an infinite number of people around it when he tried to concentrate on it. He could at least tell for certain that there was someone sitting on either side of him, but anyone beyond that was harder for him to pin down.

The impossible physics and contradictory input should have bothered him more. Crowley knew that. Even if he only knew his name and his status as a demon, he could tell that it should have bothered him a lot more. He should be questioning the whole situation. But his mind refused to focus on the discrepancy, just like he didn’t worry about the lack of memories.

As he stared into the darkness, Crowley realized there was a card game of some kind going on around him. He could make out a pool of chips in the center of the table and the people holding cards in their hands before laying them down in front of them. But whatever game it was, his faulty memories couldn’t identify it.

Cards were arranged in careful groups. But there didn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason. No patterns. Sometimes they were lined up in pairs. Or in small groups of three, four, or five. But sometimes the cards were organized in the shape of diamonds, circles, serpentine patterns, or stars. Sometimes they overlapped. Crowley thought he even glimpsed a small house of cards in front of one person, carefully balanced into a vertical shape.

And yet somehow the strangest part of it was that the cards looked blanked. That only raised more questions on how the game was played.

Directly across the table, past the arranged cards and a huge pile of chips, Crowley could make out someone else through the darkness. He couldn’t see much or really identify Her, but he saw Her holding a deck of cards and smiling. He couldn’t make out any other details, but She was definitely smiling in a way that revealed absolutely nothing about Her thoughts. That mysterious smile never wavered as She shuffled the cards.

If this was a card game, then She was clearly the Dealer.

A dark shadow, somehow even darker than the pitch-black room, made Crowley turn slightly. Behind him stood a tall skeletal figure. Not merely thin, but truly skeletal. A skull for a face with empty eye sockets staring at him patiently. Black wings like night were folded against the figure’s back. Crowley didn’t know why, but it felt like the skeletal entity was waiting for him. As if the strange figure wanted to lead him somewhere.

“ _Hello, Crowley_.”

That wasn’t the skeletal figure. He turned back to see Her smiling at him, shuffling the cards again. Crowley shivered. He felt too exposed, as if She could see far too much. He barely knew anything about himself and yet it seemed like She knew everything.

“Uh,” he said awkwardly. “Hi?”

The Dealer’s smile widened. The cards kept moving in Her hands, shuffling over and over again.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

Smiling serenely, She said, “ _You have nothing in your hand and you have nothing left to wager. I am allowing you to draw a final card._ ”

“Why?”

“ _As much as I love humanity, I have always had a soft spot for My earlier creations. My angels. Even those who later Fell. When they leave here, they do not go where the humans do. So I allow My angels and demons to draw one last card. It rarely changes anything, but it is a courtesy that I always grant them before they go. A final parting gift in most cases._ ”

As Crowley wrestled with his confusion, he watched Her fan out the cards and hold them out towards him. They were face up, but that didn’t help him much with the decision. Crowley couldn’t tell any difference between them because all the cards still appeared blank to him.

“Which card should I pick?”

“ _Yet another question. As I expected. You never did stop asking questions, did you, my child?_ ” The Dealer’s smile shifted, but he couldn’t seem to identify what it meant. “ _You may pick any card that you like and play it however you wish._ ”

Crowley stared at the cards. Even if they weren’t blank, he wasn’t certain it would help. He didn’t understand the game or the rules.

“Does it actually matter which one I pick? Are they any different? Is there something on them that I can’t see? Could you at least tell me what’s going on or how to play whatever game everyone is playing?”

“ _More questions. Always asking questions. Shouting them at Me and demanding answers._ ” Her voice remained perfectly serene and calm, Her smile never fading. “ _Most of them will not change what happens and you will then go with Azrael. A few cards might offer a different outcome, depending on how you use it. But that is up to you to figure out. Just like every other angel and demon who faced this decision when they reached a similar state._ ”

Crowley’s confusion continued to grow, but the calm acceptance seemed to be fading. He wasn’t as willing to just accept the strangeness now. The choice that She was offering felt important. Maybe even vital. But he didn’t know what was going on. It didn’t make any sense to him. None of it. He needed answers. And while She might be speaking, the vagueness of Her answers meant that She might as well not be talking at all.

“But all the cards are blank and I don’t understand any of this. How can I figure anything out if you won’t tell me what’s going on?” he said with increasing frustration. “I don’t even know who I am. What happens if I mess up and I have to go with this Azrael person? You’re not explaining anything. How am I supposed to pick the right card? What am I supposed to do?”

“ _It is a leap of faith, my child. Choose the card that feels right to you and trust that everything will turn out the way that it is meant to be._ ”

Crowley seriously wanted to grab the Dealer and shake Her until She gave him a straight answer. But something in him whispered that it would be a bad idea.

He reached over to the cards that She was holding and started running his fingers slowing along them. If sight wasn’t going to offer any useful information in that dark room, then Crowley would try other senses. Perhaps touch would let him tell the difference between the blank cards.

Or perhaps scent because Crowley abruptly realized that his sense of smell seemed to be particularly strong. There didn’t seem to be much scent in that dark room, but there was _something_. The skeletal figure behind him was the easiest thing for him to detect, as if that person– _Azrael?_ –was the most real entity in the room other than the Dealer. He couldn’t describe the scent, but the skeletal figure certainly had one.

At first, all of the blank cards still seemed identical. Touch and scent revealed nothing as his fingers traced along them. Then he realized that he was sensing _nothing_. An emptiness. Calm, peaceful, and empty. Not good, but not bad either. Just… nothing. And the only reason that he realized that was what he was sensing was because one of the cards he touched suddenly felt like _something_.

It felt like burning, anger, loss, pain, and spite. Dark and vicious. Like torture, fear, and maliciousness incarnate. Like boiling sulfur. Like Falling. Crowley didn’t know how else to explain it. He wasn’t even certain how he knew the difference between falling and _Falling_. He didn’t remember it, but he instinctively knew that they were different. And the card felt like that.

There was a difference between the blank cards. He didn’t understand what the difference meant, but it was a starting point.

Most of the cards still felt like nothingness, but now he was gradually sensing some of the others scattered in. Several felt like that dark and vicious thing. A couple seemed like the opposite. Bright, healing… and sterile. Crowley didn’t like how either of them felt to his senses. Neither felt like _him_. Even if he couldn’t actually remember anything about himself, he knew that they didn’t fit. At the moment, the empty nothingness seemed like a better option.

He took his time and She seemed perfectly content to wait. Both the Dealer and the skeletal figure behind him waited patiently for him to make his decision. The cards in Her hand seemed endless. Crowley kept tracing his fingers along the edges. He wasn’t even certain what he was looking for. But She told him to pick the card that felt right. And even if that advice seemed practically useless, it was the only thing that he had to work with.

Still, it would be nice if She could have just given him a straight answer.

There were too many cards. Just like there were an impossible number of people around the table, there were far more cards than should be able to fit in Her hand. Crowley knew he’d only gone through a tiny fraction of them, but his fingers had glided along an overwhelming number of them. But none of them felt right.

Maybe it would be better to just take one of the blank cards that felt like empty nothingness. It would be simpler. And She did say that most of them wouldn’t actually change anything. Maybe he should just get it over with and let Azrael escort him away from the weird card game. It wasn’t like he knew what was going on anyway. The whole thing was beginning to feel like a waste of—

Crowley froze, his fingers on yet another blank card in Her hand. But it felt different. Warm, bright, comforting, and soft. A little like those brighter cards, but not sterile and cold. There was something about it that was familiar and made something in his chest ache.

The card almost has a scent. Of warm rain and apples. Of old books, dust, and sunshine. Of pastries and wine. Of some intangible and soothing thing that he could only call _home_. They all added up to a feeling of belonging.

It wasn’t him. The card didn’t feel like Crowley, but the familiarity of it felt so nice that it _hurt_.

He started to pull the card from Her hand. But then he stopped. The scent was familiar. Very familiar.

Crowley turned his head to the right. One of the players was sitting next to him, though he couldn’t make out any identifying details. But he could barely make out the faint scent. The person on his right reminded him of the card.

He couldn’t properly see the person in the dark room, but Crowley could see them holding their own cards. In front of them were other cards, arranged in arbitrary groups. And a modest pile of chips. But he couldn’t see their face.

The player and the blank card felt the same. They belonged together.

Turning back to the Dealer, his fingers still carefully holding the card in Her hand, Crowley asked, “Any card? I can draw any card and use it however I want?”

Rather than say anything, She continued to smile in Her mysterious way. The urge to shake Her until some answers tumbled out of Her felt stronger than before. But something in Crowley kept warning him away. As if antagonizing Her was a dangerous idea. He pushed away the impulse and focused on his rather insane idea.

“Just in case you’re wondering,” he said slowly, “I have absolutely no clue what I’m doing and I completely blame You for that.”

Crowley pulled the blank card from Her grip and immediately turned to the right, slipping it into the player’s hand. The card and the person felt the same. They belonged together and it felt right to give that card back to them. Maybe none of the cards could change things for him, but it still felt like the best option.

And as he expected, Her smile never wavered.

As he let go and started to pull away, several cards were abruptly pressed into Crowley’s hand. The player. The person who he couldn’t properly see or identify. They were giving him half their cards. Then they slid their chips over until the pile was positioned between the two of them. Sharing their resources. Essentially trading part of what they had for the single card that Crowley gave them.

Then he noticed that one of the new blank cards in his hand felt familiar in a different way. It didn’t feel like other person. The card felt serpentine and… It felt like _Crowley_. His own card that belonged with him.

He almost laughed. The Dealer had never been holding the card that he was looking for. The other person had it the whole time.

“Our own side,” he murmured, not certain why.

The skeletal figure was no longer behind him. Crowley wasn’t certain when that happened. He also didn’t know if it was a good thing or not.

“ _Clever and creative, my child_ ,” said the Dealer. “ _Even at the end, you still choose him. You still strive to remain at his side._ ” She shuffled the deck again, Her smile just as enigmatic as before. “ _Aziraphale will be relieved._ ”

Aziraphale.

He didn’t know who that was, but the name warmed him and brought a smile to Crowley’s face. There was something wonderful about that name. Wonderful and familiar like the feeling from that card.

Crowley blinked in confusion. The room had already been pitch-black, but now it was getting harder and harder to make anything out. He couldn’t spot the other people around the table or the impossibly large pot of chips in the center. He could barely see the blank cards in his own hands. Everything grew blurry and indistinct. More like a dream than anything real.

* * *

Aziraphale didn’t know how long he crouched there, cradling the limp figure close as he quietly wept. Long enough that some of the flames were dying down, but not all. Time didn’t seem to matter. Guilt, regret, and heartache threatened to swallow him whole.

There was nothing to distract him away from his misery and grief. The humans were gone. Sent somewhere to be safe from the fight. It would take time for anyone to come and investigate the damage. And the other angels wouldn’t come back. Not with how scared Gabriel was when he fled. Meanwhile, no demon would want to poke their heads in. Not with how much celestial energy had been flying around the place recently.

Too bad. At that moment, Aziraphale might have welcomed a demonic attack.

Shaking fingers slowly combed through Crowley’s hair. There was soot in his hair and streaked along his cheek, just like it was smudged all over Aziraphale’s clothes. It almost reminded the angel of Almost-mageddon. Though Crowley’s clothes seemed to be in worse condition this time. Completely ruined. And last time, Crowley had been awake.

He'd been alive…

Aziraphale took a ragged breath. Six thousand years. For six thousand years, it had been the two of them on this world. And then Crowley was gone. As if he never existed. The angel’s greatest fear. But it wasn’t holy water that he should have feared. It was the demon’s protective streak. It was Crowley coming to his rescue one final time.

And now Aziraphale was completely alone. He had no one left. No Heaven. No other angels. And no Crowley.

Aziraphale reluctantly stopped brushing back Crowley’s hair, leaning forward until the angel’s forehead rested against his. An eternity of loneliness stretched before Aziraphale. The world would continue. And he would protect and love it. But somehow, the world seemed emptier and darker now that he would be facing it alone.

What was he supposed to do without his other half? Aziraphale could continue as he had before and might be able to find pleasure in familiar activities, but he could already tell that it would feel hollow in comparison. Humans had recorded in countless poems, books, and songs the simple truth that their lives and experiences are enriched by the companionship of others. That the world was brightened by love in all its forms. And the loss of his dearest friend, companion, _soulmate_ … It would leave everything dull and cold.

He didn’t know what happened when an angel or a demon was truly destroyed. They returned to Heaven or Hell respectively once they were discorporated, but he didn’t know what happened upon their destruction. Did they return to Her in some form? Aziraphale would like to think so. Even if Crowley never asked, wanted, or _needed_ Her forgiveness to be happy, Aziraphale would like to imagine that She had something kind waiting for him. He deserved that much.

Aziraphale raised his head just enough to press a small and gentle kiss to Crowley’s forehead. Equal parts a gesture of affection and apology. Then he tucked the demon just under his chin, hugging him close. He couldn’t stay there grieving forever. Aziraphale knew that. He would need to get up. He would need to leave, arranging a few things so that the humans assumed the destruction was something mundane. Like a gas leak. He knew that he should get going.

But Aziraphale couldn’t quite scrape together the strength to leave. Because once he stood up, he would have to start moving on. He would have to accept that Crowley was truly gone. He would have to start facing that miserable eternity alone. As long as he remained kneeling on the ground, cradling the limp body to his chest and not moving, Aziraphale could avoid that reality for a few moments more.

Nothing would ever be right again. And there was nothing that could make the heartache and grief stop hurting.

Then he felt the faintest breath brush against his neck.

The angel stiffened. He felt it again. Faint, slow, and weak, but definitely breathing. He could feel the warm breath against his neck, right where he was clutching the demon against him.

Crowley was breathing.

His cautious hope pressed Aziraphale forward. He reached again with his angelic senses. The vast desolation that he’d sensed before was still there, horrible and heartbreaking. But among the ruins, Aziraphale found it. A wounded and impossibly weak demonic presence. Like a fragile young seedling surrounded and half-buried by the ash of a forest fire. But it was there. It was real.

 _Crowley_.

The shaky sob that followed the realization was one born of relief this time. Aziraphale didn’t know how he missed the weak feeling of the demon’s existence before. Yes, it was fragile, wounded, and barely present. But he’d tried so hard before to find any sign that Crowley wasn’t gone. He’d been so certain. Or perhaps, for a brief moment, his demon _was_ gone…

But none of that mattered. Crowley was alive. Badly hurt and terrifyingly weak, but alive. Everything else was just details to sort out later. Aziraphale hugged him close, pressing another small kiss to his forehead.

“Thank you,” he whispered softly. “Thank you.”

Aziraphale wasn’t even certain who he was thanking in that moment. Maybe Crowley for not leaving him after all or maybe Her for sparing the demon from being smote out of existence. Regardless, he whispered his gratitude.

Crowley needed somewhere safe to rest and recover. Aziraphale knew that. The bookshop or the demon’s flat were too far away. They needed somewhere closer. The cottage that they were renting for holiday… It wasn’t too far. Aziraphale could manage that. Driving the Bentley was intimidating, but he would try. He’d seen Crowley drive plenty of times and Aziraphale felt relatively certain that he could copy what he’d seen. At least long enough to get there. If he could get Crowley to the cottage and place some protective wards around the property, then the demon could recover in safety.

He would heal. Crowley was hurt, but alive. He would survive. He didn’t sacrifice himself for Aziraphale. He wasn’t gone. He hadn’t lost Crowley.

Gathering the demon close, Aziraphale tried to pick him up and stand. But he immediately stumbled and nearly fell back down, barely catching himself before collapsing. His limbs were shaking and the pain that he’d been ignoring was making itself known now that there were no further distractions to mask it.

Oh, right. Sandalphon smote him too. A few times.

Both his corporeal body and his true form were complaining quite loudly now. Battered, sore, and aching from the abuse that Sandalphon heaped on him. He needed rest too. They both needed time and a safe place to recover. Which meant that Aziraphale would have to find the strength to get them both out of the semi-destroyed village. The Bentley should be far enough away that it wouldn’t have been damaged. Unfortunately, that also meant it was far enough away that it would be difficult for the angel to walk. Especially while carrying the limp figure in his arms.

But Aziraphale didn’t have much choice. He would have to manage it.

Just one step at a time.

* * *

Everything hurt. The pain was everywhere. His corporeal body. His true form. Every part of him was in some type of pain.

Memo to self: avoid smite-happy angels in the future.

But he was alive. Crowley’s head might feel a bit jumbled, but he was relatively certain that he wasn’t supposed to be alive anymore. He remembered Sandalphon. He remembered absolute agony. And he remembered Azira—

 _Aziraphale_.

Crowley wanted to fling himself to his feet and call out the name, stalking the area until he found his angel. What he actually managed was a quiet hiss of pain and slowly opening his eyes.

He was lying on his stomach in a bed. Not his bed in his flat. But he recognized it after a moment. The bed in the cottage that they rented. Though someone had replaced the white linens that came with the place. Instead, he was lying on very soft and very expensive silk sheets. And his clothes were gone. His stinging and painfully sensitive skin appreciated that kindness. Crowley was quickly learning that a powerful smiting could do a serious number on his nerve endings.

 _Ow_ , everything hurt. He was half-convinced that his _hair_ hurt.

Lying on his stomach was definitely a good idea. From what he remembered about his position when Sandalphon tried to smite Aziraphale out of existence and hit Crowley instead, all that power would have hit his back first. And the raw and burning feeling definitely supported that. He didn’t want to imagine how much agony it would be to have any pressure there. Not even the silk sheets were pulled up far enough to cover his back. Nothing was touching that entire area.

At least he didn’t have his wings out when the celestial energy hit. That would have been a new kind of nightmare.

He couldn’t see him, but Crowley knew that Aziraphale must be close by. No one else would have brought him back to the cottage. He’d either be brought to a hospital by well-meaning humans or destroyed the rest of the way by anyone from Heaven or Hell. Only Aziraphale would have brought him back somewhere safe and quiet, making Crowley as comfortable as possible. Aziraphale had to be somewhere close. He knew that.

But he needed to see the angel. He needed to know for certain that he was safe. All the logic in the universe couldn’t erase that horrible fear that Crowley didn’t save him. He needed to see Aziraphale. He needed that physical reassurance that it worked and that Sandalphon and Gabriel didn’t destroy his angel anyway.

From his current position, he could only see the cream-colored silk sheets and the pillow under his head. Somewhere beyond the edge of the bed, Crowley could make out the far wall and that was how he was able to determine that he was in the cottage. But it wasn’t enough. He needed to look around further. And that would require movement.

Crowley could already tell that he was going to regret this.

He didn’t try lifting his head up or pushing his body off the mattress. Crowley had more sense than that. He just shifted his head slightly on the pillow. But even that sparked off a blinding headache, one that stabbed through him strong enough to leave him gasping and blinking tears out of his eyes. Smiting was _not_ fun. Someone needed to drop Sandalphon into a black hole for a few thousand years.

His change of position did work though. It gave him a reassuring view of an armchair that definitely came from living room of the cottage. And in the relocated armchair on Crowley’s right was Aziraphale.

Safe. Aziraphale was safe. He was safe and close. Crowley could feel the fear and dread loosen their grip on him.

Aziraphale didn’t normally sleep, but he seemed to be dozing in the armchair. Only his angel would find a way to drift off to sleep while remaining perfectly straight. He’d taken off his coat and put it away somewhere, leaving him in his waistcoat and shirt. Even his bowtie had been loosened slightly. A blanket was draped across his lap and Crowley spotted a book. The angel had been waiting for a while. And while he wasn’t touching Crowley, Aziraphale’s hand rested on the sheets next to the demon’s hand.

Moving his hand the short distance to take Aziraphale’s hand _hurt_. His joints ground together while his skin felt like someone tried to sandpaper it off, so every touch stung sharply. But the need to hold onto Aziraphale won out. It hurt, but Crowley wrapped his fingers around him and squeezed lightly.

Aziraphale blinked awake, bleary confusion across his face. A few more blinks as he looked in Crowley’s direction and that confusion transformed into realization and relief. He gave the demon a shaky and watery smile as he visibly relaxed at the sight of Crowley being conscious.

“There you are, angel,” he rasped, managing a weak smile in return. “Are you all right? How badly did they hurt you?”

His throat felt scratchy and rough, but talking didn’t hurt too much. At least, not compared to everything else.

“Am I… Crowley, I should be asking _you_ that,” said Aziraphale as he pulled the chair a little closer and leaned over. “What were you thinking? You could have been _killed_.”

“Sandalphon and Gabriel _hurt_ you. You were on the ground and you weren’t moving. And they were going to smite you out of existence and—”

“And _you_ threw yourself right in the path of a deadly amount of celestial power. They were trying to take out an angel and we’re not vulnerable to holy energy like demons are,” snapped Aziraphale. His hand was shaking slightly in Crowley’s grip. “That could have destroyed you. It _should_ have. I almost lost you. I thought… I thought you were gone, Crowley…”

The last few words trailed off as his voice grew quiet and timid. The past grief and fear were too noticeable in his voice. The danger might be past, but the emotions were still too raw and not quite ready to disappear.

“I’m sorry, angel,” he said quietly. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m not going anywhere though. Not without you.” Crowley took a slow breath, even that careful action making him ache. “I just… couldn’t let you die. Not like… _ngh_ … I just couldn’t.”

Not again. He couldn’t bear to go through what he felt when the bookshop burned and Crowley believed that Aziraphale was truly gone. He barely survived that pain, heartache, and grief once. He wouldn’t survive it a second time.

“And do you think it would be any easier for me if _you_ died? Especially if you died protecting me?” Aziraphale closed his eyes, visibly struggling with his emotions. “Please don’t put me through that again.”

Squeezing his hand as tightly as he could manage when his bones felt like they were grinding to dust, Crowley whispered, “Got it. Yep. No dying for either of us.”

Not dying sounded like a much better plan. Of course, Crowley would do the same thing in a heartbeat if necessary. Not even a moment of hesitation. If it meant saving Aziraphale, he would always make the same choice. Though he should probably avoid mentioning that. It would just upset the angel.

Smiling weakly, Aziraphale said, “Thank you.” Then, a little more solemn, he asked, “How do you feel? I wanted to try and heal you, but… Well, the damage all came from a holy source and you’re a demon. I didn’t want to risk my powers interacting badly with it and somehow making things worse. I don’t know if you’d even have survived if I inadvertently made the damage worse. You seemed too fragile after everything, so I didn’t risk it. I couldn’t take the chance.”

“I’m fine,” he said. And when that response earned him a sharp glare, Crowley quietly muttered, “ _Will_ be fine then. It just... Hurts. Everything hurts. A lot. Sandalphon smites hard.”

“I discorporated him,” said Aziraphale, almost sounding embarrassed. “And intimidated Gabriel off the planet. I might have lost my temper a bit.”

Crowley chuckled slightly, but could only manage a moment before the ache in his chest hurt too much and threatened to turn into a coughing fit. And he _definitely_ didn’t want to find out how much it would hurt in his current state. But it was good to hear that Aziraphale stood up for himself. The other angels always underestimated Aziraphale. As did a lot of people. But Crowley never doubted that he was capable of it.

“And you?” he asked carefully. “How do you feel, angel? I missed most of what happened, but I know they smacked you around pretty badly.”

“I’m a little sore, but I’m feeling better now. I’ve been resting since we made it back and that seemed to help.”

Translation? Aziraphale had been sitting there worried out of his mind while waiting to see if and when Crowley woke up from being smote to the edge of oblivion. And worry, weariness, and injury eventually forced him to doze off, which helped him start to recover. The resting was simply a side effect of his stressed-out vigil.

Smiling tiredly, Crowley said, “Told you that you’d like sleeping if you gave it a chance.”

“Angels aren’t supposed to succumb to the temptation of sloth.”

“Pretty sure that ‘trying to stop the Apocalypse with a demon’ and ‘smiting an angel’ are slightly larger misdemeanors than taking a nap.”

Aziraphale gave him an annoyed look, but there was too much fondness and relief in his expression for it to really work. The angel slowly pulled his hand out of Crowley’s grip before reaching over to gently brush back the demon’s hair. While it stung when he touched the scalp, the gesture hurt less than Crowley’s attempt to cling to him.

“If I promise to get some more rest,” said Aziraphale slowly, “will you try to sleep a little longer? I think you’ll be more comfortable if you can sleep through most of your recovery and regain your strength.”

He’d probably be falling back asleep soon, whether he wanted to or not. Pain was exhausting. And at least he knew now that his angel was safe.

“Mmm-hmm. Just… find somewhere more comfortable,” murmured Crowley, his eyes already trying to close. “Bed. Sofa. Something.”

“Later. For now, I’d rather stay close.”

Crowley managed to hum his agreement, but he was already drifting off again. He knew that he would feel better the next time that he woke up. And he knew that Aziraphale would still be there. Safe and waiting.

* * *

Cards are shuffled as the Dealer started up the next round. The metaphorical poker game of reality continued. As it always did.


End file.
